


Rules (Were Made for Exceptions)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Iris and Oswald are an old married couple, Marriage and Childbirth, Mayor Cobblepot, References to canon Season 3, Unlikely candidates for public office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: There's always an exception to the rule





	Rules (Were Made for Exceptions)

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, some heavy references (aka borrowed inspiration) from the early episodes of Season 3. And we have another familiar face joining the cast. Please enjoy! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just playing in my sandbox.

It’s a small wedding: a justice of the peace, Harvey Bullock as a reluctant witness, and the two of them. Jim wears a standard suit; Lee wears a white-lace dress, tailored loose over her belly. As much as it’s a simple affair, it is equally somber. Absent the usual joy and delight which should be inherent in a wedding, both bride and groom wear professional expressions befitting a business arrangement.

Their rings are gold; hers with a single strand of diamonds. Jim Gordon is not one to be cheap.

Harvey insists on holding the reception at some local bar. It’s a step up from his usual haunts, but it’s still a bar and Jim couldn’t be more mortified. Halfway through the ‘celebration,’ he pulls Lee aside under pretense of getting another drink. They make their exit through the back door and drive back to her place.

“They asked if I wanted to know the gender.” Lee says, sometime later, with her second glass of cider (leftovers from the new year). “I…didn’t know what you wanted.”

He takes some time to genuinely consider it, but ultimately declines. Really, they have a fifty-fifty chance of either option—and who knows? Maybe it’ll be fun to have the surprise.

“We should probably think about names.” He says. The suggestion seems to perk Lee up, and she quickly fetches a pen and notepad. Determined to not make the entire evening awkward, Jim settles next to her on the couch, not unlike the days wherein he visits her in the morgue and they discuss details of the case together as colleagues…as friends.

Whether or not they can maintain this relationship is yet to be determined.

***

The wedding of Captain James Gordon and Medical Examiner Leslie Thompkins makes news for about a week. Then it’s unceremoniously shoved aside for an even grander announcement: Oswald Cobblepot is running for mayor. The media outlets have an absolute field day with it; headlines ranging from the unflattering to the optimistic span the papers for weeks. Everyone, from the wealthiest socialite to the street beggar, talks and talks and talks about it, day in and day out. Some comments make the published articles.

Others are reserved for private conversations.

“‘When questioned, Iris DeLaine offered no audible support for her clandestine partner’s political ambitions,’” Oswald reads, in the sort of tone which commonly precedes temper tantrums, pacing as furiously as his leg will allow, “‘It stands to reason she will not be supporting Cobblepot’s latest feather-brained ambition.’”

“It stands to reason,” Iris says, presently bent over a short mountain of papers (her need for an HR director is becoming more pressing), “the media outlets in Gotham are in dire need of creativity. And some long overdue literacy classes.”

His scowl bears an unfortunate resemblance to a turkey vulture. “‘No audible support for her clandestine partner’?” he emphasizes, with far more dramatics than necessary, “After everything, Iris!”

She finally consents to look up at him, “You are going to take the word of some community-college reject, who sorely wants for a thesaurus, over mine?”

He huffs and plops into an available chair; he’s moved past the point of resembling a sulking toddler when he pouts, but the dramatics are still an issue. She’s tempted to refer him off to a specialist in child psychology.

“I told you,” she continues, with a slow ascent out of her chair, “I fully support your decision. It would be the height of idiocy for me to do otherwise, seeing as I put the idea in your head.”

From under the desk, Shakta stirs from her afternoon nap and swats Iris’ ankle for being the cause of such a disturbance. Pacification is done when Iris lowers to the carpeted floor and presents her lap for the feline’s head to rest upon—as though it is the most natural thing in the world for a woman in her early thirties to be cross-legged on the floor, in business-casual dress, accommodating a fully grown tiger. 

Oswald says nothing, and is wise for it. A man who just placed an extensive order for exotic fauna—Chinese Pheasants, Macaws, Peacocks, and half a colony of penguins—has no right to pass judgment.

“If you’re having issues with properly marketing your image,” she says, after a pause, with fingers running systematically over Shatka’s brow, “perhaps you should consider hiring a campaign manager.”

“I’m doing just fine on my own, _thank you_.”

As with most things that involve Oswald Cobblepot, Iris simply nods, smiles, and waits for the inevitable train wreck.

***

Interviews for DeLaine Towers’ HR Director begin on a traditional Gotham spring day: grey and wet. Butch shows in one candidate after another, each time with an increasingly despondent expression—Iris rather thinks, after the fifth one, he’s trying for a nonverbal apology before subjecting her to another excruciating display of lacking professionalism. She makes a mental note to give him a raise by month’s end.

By half past three, a tall glass of wine is calling her name like a siren, and Butch looks in dire need of a frosty beer. The sound of his knuckles rapping on her door bears mental resemblance to nails on a chalkboard, and Iris wearily lifts her head with permission to enter.

“That was the last of ‘em, Boss.” He proclaims, and doesn’t even try to hide his relief. “Anyone you want me to put a pin in?”

“No.” she leans back in her chair, rubbing temples in slow circles. “We’ll just have to try another day.”

“Well, before this day is done,” he says, “got somethin’ to make it feel better.”

Her eyebrows lift in silent inquiry. He cracks a small grin, steps back to the door, and pulls it open with an inviting nod to some unknown person (or persons) on the other side. In a graceful flurry of long skirts and golden curls, Celeste wastes no time darting forward. “Mama!” she’s waving a piece of paper in her hand, and her sweet face is stretched in a radiant grin, “They said yes! I’m going to school—just like you!”

Yes indeed: the day just underwent vast improvements.

***

The train wreck happens dangerously close to election time, but not quite soon enough that there isn’t hope for redemption. Nevertheless, Iris wears a shameless smirk when Oswald stomps into her drawing room and drops himself on the sofa.

“One breath towards ‘I told you so’,” he says, quite tersely, “and I shall suture your lips shut.”

“I endeavor you to make one single move towards my lips and hope to keep your hands intact.” She replies; her smile is sweet, but her teeth and tongue click in a distinct threat. He rolls his eyes and sinks deeper into the cushions, circling back to toddler tantrum, and she rolls her eyes a bit. “Really, Oswald. Don’t take the consequences of your stubbornness out on me. It’s an ugly thing. As are you, wearing anything remotely close to a scowl.”

(She thinks he might have stuck his tongue out at her, but doesn’t take a secondary look to confirm.)

***

“How, exactly, did _you_ end up as my campaign manager?”

“Because Iris asked me to lend a helping hand.” Edward replies, tapping fingers against his chin. “And I am of a charitable and giving heart.”

Cobblepot makes a face but no further commentary, which leaves Edward to carefully examine the curious collection of slogans, benefactors, and other haphazard ideas which are, yes, necessary for a successful election to public office, but presently reads as a complete disaster. Still, Edward Nygma enjoys nothing as much as he does a challenge, and this certainly looks like an ample one to tackle.

He shoos the smaller man out of the room, clears a wall of portraits, artwork, and other tapestries, then starts pinning papers up. First, it’s just to get everything off the desk and onto a visual spread. When he’s done, the wall bears a striking resemblance to the inner wall of an artistically-inclined-but-certifiably-insane man. Terribly disorganized, but that’s where the second step comes into play.

He sheds his suit jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.

***

The marriage between two of the GCPD’s ranking employees, more or less, goes ignored—or rather, people aren’t aware of it enough to even ignore. The two of them don’t act any differently toward each other (something Harvey takes great pleasure in reminding Jim of on a daily basis), and her ring isn’t gaudy enough to attract too much attention. No one pays much attention to the Captain’s hands to notice the additional of a solitary gold band.

Halfway through lunch, Lee starts and sets a hand over her belly. Ever the proactive responders, Jim’s up and at her side in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

She smiles, possibly the most open and genuine expression she’s worn in a while, and sets his hand over the growing swell. “Feel that?”

He does: a kick from within. First one, then another; two more, then it stops. The moment feels serene; not magical or transcending, but the tranquility feels so out of place in a place like Gotham that, for a beat, it almost qualifies as borne of fairytales. The look shared between his eyes and hers declares as much: the child is real, growing more and more with each passing day. What will happen, when the child breathes air in this world and begins its journey through life, remains to be seen. Promises of happy marriages and joyous moments, eagerly anticipated, have no place in Gotham. Or, at least, not for any great extended period of time.

But this moment is an exception.

***

Almost two months into the migraine-inducing hunt for her Human Resources Director, success is finally claimed. With mixes reviews from the onlookers.

“You can’t be serious, Boss.” Butch says, looking like someone knocked him upside the head. Beside him at the bar, Gabriel is making a valiant effort to restrain his amusement (and looking like he’s swallowing lips in the process). “I mean…of all the dames who opted for the position—and I’m not saying she’s not a fine-looking girl. She is! But, y’know…in terms of experience and all…”

“She has extensive experience, Butch.” Iris says, visibly bewildered at such protests. “Several years spent in marketing; familiarity with business negotiations; and quite an impressive awareness of how to sell one’s attributes in finalizing an arrangement.”

“All of which she earned,” Oswald looks very close to pitching himself face-first into his martini, “by selling _her own_ assets on the street! For goodness’ sake, Iris! I am fully supportive of branching outside the norm for new blood, but this is _quite_ beyond the pale!”

“She came with splendid references.”

“You mean from her beat-cop boyfriend, who happens to be on your payroll?”

Gabriel snorts into his drink, then hastily coughs to cover it up. Iris cocks an eyebrow, thinning her lips in a cool line. “You may recall our agreement, Oswald,” she says, with a tone to match her expression, “to let our legitimate business affairs be each other’s concern, with opinions permitted on the condition that they are _invited_?”

Her chilled tone shuts him up, for a bit, but the disapproval radiates off him like a foul odor. Unmoved by her partner’s ruffled feathers, she moves forward with the contract. The next week, Beatrice “Red” Fielders joins DeLaine Towers as the new director of Human Resources. Dressed in a neat pencil skirt and purple blouse (the shade of which compliments her hair beautifully), she looks a world apart from the ‘lady of the evening’ introduced through a happenstance encounter weeks prior, when her favor was still with short hemlines and ragged sneakers.

“I won’t let you down, Ma’am.” Beatrice (no, no, ‘Red’…her birth christening carries an antiquated personality which fails to properly represent the young bubbly enthusiast currently trembling with delight) declares, shaking Iris’ hand in a solid grip.

Iris smiles, welcomes her with warm gentility, and says nothing about that which bears a distinct resemblance to Officer Steers’ high school ring, now fitted on Red’s finger.

***

On a brisk January day, Oswald Cobblepot is officially sworn in as Mayor of Gotham. He is paraded through the streets: crowds cheering, streamers falling, confetti flying. He makes a public announcement of gratitude to one Edward Nygma, without whom he would scarcely have dreamed this day might come to pass.

(Off-camera, he makes a point of telling Edward to lose the smirk, lest it become a permanent staple of expression.)

***

On a very cold February night, Gotham General admits one Leslie Thompkins into the delivery room. There is idle chatter among the nurses (when they have nothing better to do) about the baby being two weeks past even the latest possible date. Dr. Thompkins expresses her discomfort in a manner which otherwise wouldn’t be heard (and certainly not attributed to one of her reputable demeanor). James Gordon nearly lands the doctor in his own emergency room, when the good gentleman suggests the police captain wait outside the delivery room to prevent him from ‘getting in the way’.

And then she’s born: a perfectly healthy baby girl.

While Lee takes a much-needed rest, Jim stretches his legs down the hallway. His excuse of getting some coffee somehow (through, really, was it ever meant to be anything else?) turns a corner and brings him outside the nursery. She’s there, his daughter, his little girl, bundled up tight in a blanket and soft pink cap.

And she’s not alone.

How Iris got past the watch-dog nurses to enter a place of utmost vulnerability, Jim decides to not ask. Perhaps her reputation is engrained enough by now that people simply nod and say nothing more. Or maybe she gave her most charming smile and skirted her way in. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

A single finger is cocooned inside the grasp of five tiny digits, the adjacent hand having escaped from its confines. The smile on her lips isn’t one he sees much of, and when he does see it, always it’s in the presence of her own child. No exceptions to the rule—until now.

“We never managed to settle on a name.” Jim says, at length. Weeks, months, of going back and forth, amounted to a wasted notepad and the weathering of a few fights. Names of familial importance. Names with profound origins. Names that just sounded nice. Nothing.

“Good thing you have me, then.” Iris says, barely above a whisper. The grip on her finger is loosening; her thumb tenderly brushes the little hand, then tucks it back inside the blanket. Truly, this is a side to Iris he has never seen, not in such stark, blinding clarity. It’s so jarring, so mesmerizing, that he nearly loses her comment in the haze of awe.

Then reality catches up, as it’s known to do. “What’s that mean?”

She smiles, the smile she gives when he’s said something vaguely (or exceptionally) stupid but he’s her father all the same and she humors him that that smile and a kiss to the cheek. “I’ll send Butch to drive you all home tomorrow.”

It’s not until she’s well out of sight, and he’s stood there in blatant befuddlement for too many minutes, that he happens to glance down and catch sight of the name tag set to the Plexiglas exterior. ‘Baby Gordon’ is scratched out with a solitary black line, and in its place, bearing Iris’ elegant penmanship, is a new christening:

_Barbara Gordon_


End file.
